


Nobody Should

by SilkWrites



Category: Prisoners (2013)
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/M, Jake Gyllenhaal - Freeform, One Shot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkWrites/pseuds/SilkWrites
Summary: Imagine an impromptu first date with Detective Loki -- it seems you’ve had your eye on one another for awhile. This is a short second-person POV story in two acts, and my first attempt at the genre of x-reader fan fiction. Written for a friend.





	Nobody Should

“Happy Thanksgiving, detective.”

The place is deserted. There’s a light snow falling outside the diner windows, adding to the dirty slush that’s accumulated on the sidewalk outside. He’s seated at his regular table, facing the street. He  _always_  sits facing the street. You’ve wondered if he’s more interested in what’s going on outside – or just doesn’t want to face the people inside. 

You’ve just refilled his coffee, and he thanks you, by name. Well – that’s not hard; you wear a name tag, after all. The first time you served him, you weren’t surprised. But the next time, he  _remembered_  things. Little passing comments you’d made. And you wondered if he was  _always_  so attentive to waitstaff. You didn’t want to read too much into it, though -- he must have a good memory for detail; he  _is_  a detective. Your boss told you that -- he’s been a regular here since long before  _you_  were hired -- though you already knew his name and reputation from the papers. You never thought much about him until you met him in person, though. And lately… you’ve been thinking about him a lot. “You get that problem with your car fixed?” he asks.

The smile you give him is as surprised as it is bashful. He remembered something  _that_  trivial? “Oh. Yeah.” You give him a little nervous laugh. “Turns out it was just really low on oil. Thank you for asking. Uh… your cases going well?”

He nods, but doesn’t elaborate. But that’s what you expected; by now you know he only talks about the closed cases. He’s fairly tight-lipped about ongoing investigations, and that’s appropriate for his work. You admire his professionalism, but you wonder if he ever relaxes. He never really  _seems_  relaxed. Still smiling, you set down the tray with the check and take a moment to peer over his shoulder. Now he’s got the newspaper open to the sudoku, and he’s halfway through solving it. You enjoy watching him work things out… even if it’s just for fun.

“Not many people here on Thanksgiving,” you comment. It’s a Chinese restaurant. Turkey and cranberries aren’t on the menu, and it’s getting late.

“ _You’re_  here,” he replies flatly, still staring at the number puzzle. Is he –  _teasing_ you?

“Yeah, I noticed. So are  _you_.” You give him a lopsided grin. “Why do you always come in here on my shift? You know, if you wanted to see more of me, you shouldn’t sit facing the street.”

He glances up at you sharply, eyes closing tightly in a series of short blinks, and you’re uncertain how to read his expression. “I always come here for Thanksgiving. How come you’re not with  _your_  family? I thought you told me your brother’s visiting. You love his kids, don’t you?” He  _has_  been paying attention. You mentioned your nieces earlier when you brought him his order.  He had the paper open to a toy store advertisement and you said you planned to go buy their Christmas presents tomorrow. You asked him if had any Christmas shopping to do. He didn’t.

“I’m still kind of new here,” you shrug. “They always stick it to the new employees. Make us work holidays. But to tell you the truth, it’s not so bad. I’m getting time and a half, and I’m not stuck at the kids table next to the younger cousins I can’t stand, just because I’m still single. Or worse, the adults table, where everyone’s expecting me to agree with them on politics. They’ll save me a plate, and I’ll  catch up with them later. This is  _peaceful_.” You look around the empty room and smile. It  _is_  peaceful. Just you and him. “You always come  _here?”_

“Every year.” He tosses it out casually, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. He’s leaning to the side, pulling out his wallet, eyes focused on the bill.

“But – don’t you have…” You don’t want to pry, but you can’t help asking. “There’s nobody you’d rather be with today?”

He doesn’t answer, just blinks twice as he counts out bills. He places them on your tray, and as you take it back to the register you wonder if you’ve overstepped. But you can’t stop staring at the back of his head, this… handsome yet enigmatic and solitary man having Thanksgiving dinner alone in an empty Chinese restaurant.  _Again_. You glance at the big clock on the wall and bite your lip, wondering how bold you’ll dare yourself to be. As you walk back towards him, you make up your mind.

“Thank you, detective.” You’re formal as you hand back the tray with the final receipt and his change. And then, you drop the formality. “You know, you’re my last customer… and my -- my shift is over, if you… want some company.”

He looks up at you, surprise registering in his eyes. You almost lose your nerve in that moment. You’re not usually this forward. “Nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving,” you assert, standing your ground. You know you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t at least offer an alternative. “We could hang out here  awhile, talk… maybe find somewhere to watch the football game…”  _Where?_  There’s no TV here, and you don’t even  _care_  about the football game. You’re just grasping at straws.

“We have a TV at the station,” he says, as though reading your mind. You nod politely. That’s not quite what you had in mind. He’s giving you a scrutinizing look. “But I don’t want to watch the game.”

There’s a beat, and you burst into laughter. “Me neither.” And he cracks a small smile and huffs a brief, soft chuckle. Then there’s a moment – a charged, awkward silence -- and he breaks eye contact.

“Might go for a drive,” he says. You follow his gaze out the window and frown a little at the flurries coming down.

“In  _that?_ ” You  _hate_  driving in snow.

“Yeah,” he answers softly, checking his phone for messages. There’s another long pause. He looks like he’s trying to work something out. Then he looks up at you. “Wanna come?”

Your eyes widen. His lips twitch upward in a ghost of a smile.

* * *

If he were any other man, you might be getting nervous by now. You’d probably have asked him to take you back when the car turned off the brightly-lit main streets lined with buildings to follow a narrow country road. It’s getting dark, and it’s snowing – not the best driving conditions, and a bit remote from the heart of the town. But you  _trust_  him. Everything about him tells you you can trust him.

He stops the car, and you see why you’re here. Ahead is a large pond, and beyond the opposite shore are city lights glowing in the dusk. Around you swirl the quietly descending flakes of white. “I’ve never been here before. This is beautiful.”

“I come here sometimes,” he says, “to think.” You understand. You need that kind of space, too. He unbuckles his seat belt. You do, too. You guess he plans to sit here awhile, and you’re fine with that.

You think about him sitting alone in the restaurant. Then you think about the fact that you’re here with him now, in his car. “I like it.” He gives you a quick glance, hard to read.

You sit in silence for awhile, the engine running to keep the heat on inside the car. Your eyes are drawn to his fingers, tapping idly on the steering wheel. You’ve noticed them before; you’ve always been curious. Your fingers venture over, and you immediately have his attention. He flinches, draws back his hand; you follow suit and withdraw yours. “What are those for?” you ask, referring to the tattoos on the backs of his knuckles. “Those zodiac signs?”

He’s silent for a moment, then slowly holds out his hand, contemplating the markings. “People,” he replies. “People I’m not sharing Thanksgiving with.” There’s something dark in his tone; a bitterness, a sense of loss. It’s a tone that makes you want to take that hand and hold it, but you don’t. Not without asking.

“May I?”

He looks at you carefully, and gives a slight nod. You lean over, reach out and touch the markings. It’s the first time you’ve gotten a good look at them. “Did it hurt to get these?”

He pulls his hand back. “A little. But it’s – have you ever gotten a tattoo?”

You shake your head. You’ve thought about it; haven’t had the guts.

“There are some things that hurt a lot worse. And when you’re getting ink, all you’re thinking about is how much  _less_  it hurts.”

You nod. You understand. “You’ve got one on your neck, too.” He’s usually wearing a collared shirt with long sleeves, but you’ve noticed.

“Yeah.”

You look at him expectantly.

“I’m… I’m not really good at these things,” he says.

“What?” Now you’re frowning slightly, confused.

His eyes gesture around the interior of the car, land back on you. “This…”

It takes you a moment. And then you get it. Suddenly your cheeks feel hot.

“I’m… not either,” you admit, giving him a blushing, apologetic smile. Snowflakes disappear as they land on the windshield. The hood of the car’s turning white, except where the engine’s heat is melting it off.

“You want to look at it?” he asks, fingers moving to the button on his collar.

“What?” Briefly mesmerized, you’re yanked out of your reverie, uncertain where this is going. Then he shifts to fully face you, turning his head toward the back seat to expose the left side of his neck.

Your eyes fall on the sunburst design, wondering at the meaning. “That’s beautiful,” you say. “I’ve always wondered…” It’s gotten dark enough now that you’re looking at it by the dim dashboard light. You twist in your seat and lean forward, trying to get a better look. You lose your balance and fall against the steering wheel. The car’s horn resonates loudly in your ears.

“Fucking—" he shouts, flinching backward in the driver’s seat.

“Shit!” you yelp simultaneously, jolting your body back and off the horn.  “God, I’m sorry.” You both stare at each other a moment, then burst into cringing laughter. “I’m sorry!”

And now he’s laughing  _with_  you, as you stare out the windshield at the snowy scene outside. Your heart’s pounding with adrenaline, embarrassment, and – joy. You’ve never heard him laugh before. You’ve  _made_  him laugh. And it sounds… beautiful.

At last it’s quiet again, and when you look back, you catch him looking at you. “…What?”

“You were right, before,” he tells you. There’s that  _unreadable_  look again, and a sudden buzz in the pit of your stomach tells you that  _now_  you can read it. “At the restaurant,” he clarifies. “You were right. I always come in during your shift.” You lock eyes.

He begins to lean toward you, then hesitates, eyes searching yours. He’s reserved, tentative. Like always. You’re nervous as hell.

“It’s all right,” you nod at him, holding your breath. Your eyes are focused hypnotically on his lips, closing as they land on yours, soft and ephemeral, like the snowflakes. But much  _warmer_. Your heart stops.

He pulls back a bit and you catch your breath. And in the next moment, he steals it away again.

You see the shift in his eyes first: intention.  _Purpose_. The force of his kiss pushes you backward. His lips crash into yours as though he’s kicking down the door. Your hands fly up, then settle lightly around his jaw, pads of your fingers against his stubble. You push back, fighting for breath. You feel his fingers in your hair, against the nape of your neck, sending a tingle down your spine. The spice of his aftershave mingles with tobacco smoke in your nose. Eyes closed, you succumb to what’s been building in you for longer than you’d admitted to yourself. Your lips wrestle with inelegant passion. You hear soft sounds from the back of his throat; you hear yours answer. At last he pulls away, and you give him a bashful smile, your cheeks flushed, breath shaky. “Wow…” you exhale. It’s a good thing you’re already sitting down. Your brain’s as scattered and patternless as the flurries outside. “What did I do to deserve  _that?_ ”

“Like you said. Nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving,” he mutters softly, staring at his lap. And when he looks up at you, his eyes hold a question.

“Nobody  _should_ ,” you answer. Your hands take his, and this time he doesn’t pull them back. “David?” Your voice is small and shy, and hearing your lips pronounce the word feels… awkwardly  _intimate_. As often as you’ve chatted before in the restaurant, as much rapport as you’ve built, you’ve never called him by his first name. But under the circumstances… “Would you like to -- show me the rest of your tattoos?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve made it to the end here, thank you for reading! Frankly I think the whole x-reader genre is awkward, because I, the writer, don’t actually know anything about YOU. So rather than presume I do, I’ve imagined a character, and hopefully, the second-person perspective serves to help you put yourself in the story. I tried to keep it vague for the "you" voice, without any physical description -- and if you look closely, you'll notice I didn't even assume gender. ;-) I hope you’ve enjoyed it!


End file.
